Copyright, Nina Bagley

2005-2014
All rights reserved.
I spend a lot of time taking photos and editing them; words take that long as well. PLEASE DO WRITE AND ASK PERMISSION before using any of my words or photographs. Thanks for understanding.

June 2007

i had to share this artwork with you that was just sent to me from my dear, dear judy, who lives all the way down in beautiful sydney, beautiful australia. judy was my hostess there for four glorious days - if i can ever get around to posting about my adventures in oz, you'll understand how generous she was with her time and attention. since then, we've become even closer with email communication, and i look forward to next year when she'll be taking my workshops in australia again. judy's work astounds me. i don't know what else to say about it, except that it is glorious, highly detailed, with much much meaning and significance. in fact, i'll insist that you go have a look over at red velvet to read her latest story and see some of her artwork - absolutely amazing.

alright, then. i'm off, to the heart of dixie, where it hasn't rained in well over two months, and temperatures reach nearly 100 degrees these days, and my parents do not use air conditioning because they like the windows open to the sounds of the birds and the fresh air. there are worse things, to be sure.

funny, how the introduction of one little color in a day can begin to seep into all areas of your life. remember the ribbon that i dyed, a few weeks ago? the antique french silk yardage, that i stuck in a fat pot on the stove and mixed with blue and green and a bit of yellow in hopes of achieving something close to teal? well. obviously, i've become enamoured with any connection to this shade, and it seems to run through my veins these days. the chair on the deck is where i perch, every summer evening, and watch what the changing light does as it drapes itself across and then down the mountains in the western distance. the closest mountain there, sturdy and stubborn and unchanging in stature but a chameleon when it comes to hue, can turn the loveliest shade of teal blue/green as the evening settles in and mist rises up from valleys below. on this particular evening, though, i couldn't even see the mountains beyond - just a coating of white that made me feel like i was in a muffled cocoon. that's what i love about living here - the variety, the impermanence of the very same vista i see from this chair i've placed squarely in the corner of my deck. this is a humble place, my house, with what some would consider smallish range views, out past the maple tree that insists on growing bigger, its branches reaching farther every year; but views they are, and i think they look every bit as grand as these from an old biltmore estate postcard my father gave me years ago, blue skies, white fluffy clouds, mountain views and all. the surroundings definitely make me what i am, and i am trying to soak up every bit of the beauty, and be influenced and inspired by it. and to remind myself, daily, hourly, to be here now.

lo, the lowly chair, with the beautiful blue green views. i think if you look hard enough you'll see evidence of my resident phoebe as well. now you can see why i'm already beginning to pine for here, before i've even left: tomorrow i'm hitting the road with aspen, headed to alabama to see my folks for a couple of nights, and leave aspen with them while i am away. from there, on thursday, i'll fly to wisconsin, and spend the next eleven days with dear friends kathy and bill, of valley ridge studio, teaching and trying to stay out of trouble. i love going there, absolutely love it - love them - and have an incredible time - otherwise, i'd not teach for two weekends in a row. but to leave the place to which i am so firmly rooted makes me absolutely ache. to go and have a spendid adventure, and then to come back home - a perfect experience, yes?

i thought i would share with you an image of my latest necklace design (you may click on the photo for closer detail), something i created to take with me to wisconsin; i used some of the antique teal ribbon to incorporate into the silver chain, and the lovely thing about this design is that it can be worn either long (30") or as a choker, with the ribbon doubled up behind the neck. yes, it is going away, already spoken for, but upon my return, i'll be free until late september to busy myself with jewelry to show and sell right here, for any and all of those of you who might be interested.

so. i'll not be able to post until after the 4th, but i'll have access to email and will enjoy hearing from you from afar. and, thanks to everyone who commented about the messy studio...it's nice to know that i'm not the only one up to my eyebrows in stuff! do take care, and do remember to be there now.....x

for more self portraits on the environment and how it effects us, be sure to visit here.

i speak for myself, the gatherer of everything, but i know from experience that you, too, are a collector as well. i look around me this morning here in my little squirrel's nest of a home and wonder what it must look like to a stranger who might happen by, unannounced, and see this odd and random assortment of findings scattered about across the tops of tables, stuffed into boxes and drawers and onto shelves and every available level surface there happens to be in this house. i'm beginning to think of myself as one of those george booth new yorker cartoon characters, old and grizzled, peering out of a top window, surrounded by her eclectic assortment of treasures that might seem quite strange to anyone else. i do not, however, have bare light bulbs hanging from my ceilings; nor do i have fifteen cats milling about as i bathe from a claw footed tub, for those of you who are familiar with the cartoonist to which i refer.

if you were set foot into my studio - that is, if you could step into the studio, as it is quite small (an extra tiny bedroom) and stuffed to the gills - i think you'd either be able to understand and com- miserate, or be absolutely appalled. too, when i am working in there, i have to step up and over aspen each and every time i get up to find something, as he flops himself down in the one open three foot space in the middle of the floor. (and if you look closely at that disaster area that is my work space, you'll notice that when the photo was taken, i had perhaps five inches by five inches of clear table space upon which to work. that is most always the case, no matter how often i clear things away). i have things, wonderful things, tucked away into all sorts of lovely little drawers and boxes, but there are findings that are called just that for a reason - findings. why? because i'm astounded when i unearth them three years later, tucked away right where i thought i would be able to locate the special somethings when i needed them. oh, not so, not so. not at all. my mind knows how to fool myself better than anyone else, and i spend worthless hours of my ever-shortening life throwing things around in search of that one item i need for a project, that one thing i do not find until months or years have passed. yes. it is a problem. yes, i am spontaneous. yes, i do collect. and yes, i should meditate more often.

this house is full of nature, really, dragged in from out of there, into here....nests and sticks and rocks, dried bugs and as much as i hate to admit it, even a dried little frog. it is full of things made from nature, too, if i think about it long enough - vintage mother of pearl buttons carved from shell, ancient books covered in leather from animal hides, fluttery old paper that is made from towering trees. feathers float down from shelves, unmoored from their stations, and drift about in the studio as afternoon breezes have their way with whatever else is left unattached. you would think i was building my own nest in there. i suppose if i think about that long enough, too, i really am.

we all do our share of gathering, here and there - we bring things in, we take them out, we keep them for a while and then we let them go. it's healthier that way, i think, to not hold on so tightly, to give things their wings, to love them and caress them and then to send them on their way so that they can start their own collections, somewhere else - in some other place, some other brand new spot that is at first unfilled, sparse, uncluttered, with a penchant for echos and footsteps on bare floors... a place that will inevitably fill with the dreams, the memories, the things that we draw back around.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,Enwrought with golden and silver light,The blue and the dim and the dark clothsOf night and light and the half-light,I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

i'm not happy with this photograph, but it will have to do. it suits today perfectly, with the morning fog, the overcast skies, the very cool temperature. after i fussed and fretted with the lighting to bring out the farther mountain range, my hair looks like it has streaks of grey (not) and the sweater, massive flecks of lint (also not). but, this is my world - the incredible view, the trees, the wide and open sky. and if i could infuse this photograph with sounds, you would hear the lilting music of many different birdsongs, the rushing of a mountain stream below, the breeze in the trees. and nothing more - no traffic infiltration, no clatter of noisy neighbors, no radio or tv. simply, country quiet, and me padding around on the deck and inside my house making tea. this is my world, and this is my life, when i am not off on a plane flying hither and yon, meeting up with you and you and you, them and them and them, having my time away from here, so that i can come back to this again.

i travel a very good bit with the teaching end of my work, going to all corners of the earth these days to share with others the various metal working and mixed media techniques i've taught myself throughout the years. those trips have been rewarding and gracious and memorable, but none of them compare to the trip i took this past weekend - at least not as far as milestones go. this little journey was a true first for me, and for robin, my older son, as it was the first time i'd ventured to see him in his own home away from mine. he's been asking me for months and months to come for a visit; but because of my own stupid busy travel schedule, i was never able to carve out a little spot until this past weekend, when aspen and i finally piled into the car and headed into higher north carolina mountains for boone, three hours from here.

it was a tender time. tender, easy, beautiful. robin was an eager host, leading me through the center of downtown boone, going out of his way to introduce me to his friends we'd happen upon as we walked along and ducked in and out of shops where they worked. there was also joshua, a homeless man robin had told me about over lunch - someone who sits up on main street and makes money by cheerfully selling little pebbles and stories that he has written, copied, and stapled. because i purchased two, he autographed them and allowed me to take his happy photograph. i liked talking to joshua, there with my sweet boy robin, who had also kindly purchased stories from him in earlier times. i think that joshua has found a good home there on the streets of boone, surrounded by understanding young folk who treat him with kindness and respect.

from one downtown shop i found these lovely little hands, perfect for holding my favorite "odd" stone of all time, the size of a large marble (found years ago when walking the beach of port townsend, washington). they will always remind me of this sunny day spent walking with my son, being the guest, the newcomer, the mom who had come to visit and play.

after lunch we joined robin's very lovely girlfriend mary and housemate doug for a trip into the woods to a place where robin was told that "if fairies lived in boone, this is where they would live". having just watched the incredible pan's labyrinth in its entireity two nights in a row, fairies were fresh on my mind, and i relished walking down, down, down deep into a an earthy, fragrant ravine where a rushing stream flowed through enormous stones heavily covered in rich green moss. a glance up provided views like this, a wonderful towering white pine tree, sadly dying but magnificent all the same; a glance down at my feet gave me worlds of magical play spots for fairies, such as the stepping stones of mushrooms growing up one tiny tree. the late afternoon air was kelly green, and smelled of damp fresh dirt and moss and rich sweet nutritious goodness; places like this actually seem to have an energy to them, and we all just melted into it, becoming quiet and reflective while we sat on the rocks and listened to the water wind its way down the mountain there below dangling legs and arms. even aspen settled in to the peace of the moment, diving in to the water and biting it with great chomps before climbing up onto a lichen-covered rock to rest.

yesterday we drove over to the nearby community of valle crucis, a gorgeous valley area that is still fairly unde- veloped (rare these days, sadly) and home to the old mast general store. what a wonderful old place, with creaking wooden floorboards, beautiful stairs leading up to a second floor (see the photo at the top of this entry? check out those layers of paint!), where wavy glassed windows look out to the old road and mountains beyond. it smells of linseed oil, old wood, leather, and a history. there is even a working post office, complete with ancient p.o. boxes. i remember visiting this place back in 1982, three years before robin was born; it hasn't changed that much since then, except for the marks at the front door noting where the waters rose for different storms.

i left robin in boone yesterday evening, driving back home with a quiet and pensive spirit. aspen was worn out, and i drove the winding back roads thankful for a son who has the strength of an independent spirit, thankful for his happiness, his sense of place, his idea of purpose and the very obvious fondness and high esteem with which his friends hold him. i suppose i've done well, in this regard; so why was i feeling so bittersweet and blue, on that long and quiet three hour drive back home?

...and actually i still plan to attack and begin to conquer an ever-growing list of studio chores (jo, i know, i know! xo); but i stepped out back for just a minute this morning to find a few four leaf clovers to send my new zealand sister wendy, and the searching took me deep down into the closeness of what is all around me at my feet. oh! just look. it rained last night, ever so briefly (we down here in the south are suffering an awful drought, and i feel, feel, feel for my parents in alabama, who've not had rain in over two long months!), just as i was hunkering down into my flannel sheets and two quilts (still) to read for thirty minutes before sleep. i love to hear that hopeful, promising sound of rain, the slow first sounds of something hitting fresh new fat, tender leaves of late spring and early summer - the drops that come reluctantly at first, then more and more. and then the lovely smell that drifts in with the accompanying breeze, of wet grass and fern fronds and moss and whatever it is that makes the wet night mountain air smell so damned good. deep breath, here, right? i know. intoxicating.

seeing these miniscule water worlds resting, quivering, ever so momentarily on the backs and fronts of fallen leaves (why did they fall so soon?) makes me realize there are worlds and worlds we never stop to see. our feet pass right by an infinite amount of magical sights, but most of us either don't have the time or the means to stop and see.

it's a beautiful temporary world, one that i'm glad i was able to catch this morning. i'm sitting here at my computer, listening to the breeze in the trees, and i can hear the remaining drops that are clinging to the leaves patter to the ground. we needed that rain, and the thirsty earth is happy for it. the trees are grateful, as are the birds. it's time for me to get on to work, but i wanted to share these images with those of you who might not have been able to see the shining little worlds that glistened, if only for a moment, here on firefly road.

I meant to do my work today,But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,And a butterfly flitted across the field,And all the leaves were calling me. And the wind went sighing over the land,Tossing the grasses to and fro,And a rainbow held out its shining hand,So what could I do but laugh and go?

AND what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days;Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look, or whether we listen,We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys;The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives;His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

to be able to hold a tree, to embrace it, love it, take it into my arms if only for a minute would be to give back to this tree what it has given to me: comfort, shelter, pure sweet mountain air to breathe in great thirsty gulps.

i had an awful, wet-blanket case of the blues on saturday, and spent the bulk of the day moping around not knowing what to do with myself other than stare out the window into the branches of this very tree. but somewhere in the afternoon i decided to amble down the dirt driveway to the mailbox, and resting there inside was a package from washington state for me, flat but thick - a book, quite obviously. i love books. i love packages. this was good! what was even better was the book inside, with a card that said, "when i read the passage on trees, i thought of you, of the photo of you hugging the tree on your travels, and knew you had to have this. it spoke so loudly to me of you, i felt compelled to find a copy and send it.". thank you, tina. thank you, thank you, thank you.

"for me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. i revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. and even more i revere them when they stand alone. they are like lonely persons. not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like beethoven and nietzsche. in their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree...trees are sanctuaries. whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. they do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

a longing to wander tears my heart when i hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. if one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. it is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, thouh it may seem to be so. it is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. it leads home. every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

so the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts. trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. they are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. but when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. he wants to be nothing except what he is. that is home. that is happiness."

i love traditions - they way they make me feel comforted in their predictability, their act of affirmation. this morning i decided on the spot that it would be a fine day for a trip to asheville (one hour drive) with roy to our favorite little sushi restaurant, wasabi; all it took was a phone call to my boy in his apartment, and the decision was made. we were just there two short weeks ago, on a sunday early evening as well, so i've just decided that it has now become "our tradition". granted, this one may be fleeting, as roy will leave in august for school in wilmington, an eight hour drive from here; but who says that traditions have to be long-lived? this could very well be our "summer of sunday sushi". it isn't cheap, but hey - the cost of time with roy? with robin? priceless.

that's sweet, shy andy there on the left, holding the piece of artwork i made this afternoon with the two photos i took of our regular sushi chefs the last time we were there (we always sit at the sushi bar, and get the royal treatment from our beloved mai, who waits on us, and andy and peter). andy blushed when he saw his photograph in the artwork, and before roy and i even had our green tea, he had treated us to a wonderful special dish of sashimi. throughout our meal, i saw him picking up the piece, after washing his hands, and showing it to the various employees there. peter, to the left, was off for the day, much to my disap- pointment. the original photograph i took of him was fuzzy, so i opted to make it look like those old linen finish postcards from the 1950's, richly saturated in color and soft in detail. i didn't have frames handy at the house, so simply took an old book cover (a child's embossed encyclopedia, with colorful scenes of people across the world on the opposide side as endpaper) and placed the photos under mica with torn fabric tape. the rock was a special one i had found over in the smoky mountain park - very round, very fitting i thought for what would hopefully hang on the walls of a japanese restaurant. it made for yet another lovely evening, where we are always greeted with hugs and treated like royalty. and, before heading back home, i stopped at a gas station to pick up a copy of the local want ads to begin checking for rental house listings. it is finally time to begin heading in that direction, methinks. time, and not time. is it ever?